


Reading the Signs

by OllyJay



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Phrack Fucking Friday, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2019-10-04 02:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllyJay/pseuds/OllyJay
Summary: Time is precious and, horoscopes notwithstanding, you never really know what the future holds...It may have taken them a while to get here but now Jack and Phryne are determined to make the most of every moment they have together.





	1. Capricorn Dec 22-Jan 21

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first PFF and inspired by Sarahtoo and her fabulous [Up to Chance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13418712) I am going to attempt to string a years worth of them into a fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shake up your home life and your usual daily routine! Dynamic Mars encourages you to be much more proactive about domestic matters, family relationships and household chores._  
>  _\- NZ Herald 3 Jan 2019_

“Ouch!”

Phryne pulled her hand quickly away from the heat of the toaster, popping her fingers in her mouth to soothe the burn. She glared at the offending kitchen implement; she was starving and so toast would happen whether this silver monster wanted it or not. Extending her hand, she flicked the flap of the toaster down - using just the tips of her nails this time - to reveal the red hot element and not quite scorched bread. She turned it over and pushed it back up. Then she repeated the procedure on the opposite side of the device. Job complete, for now, she concentrated on the two slices already on the plate.

As she spread the butter Phryne pondered the spread selection. Strawberry jam was nice though not special, honey was tempting; the colour enchanting, not to mention the sensuous way it flowed from the spoon. Or marmalade? In the past it's bitterness had not appealed but recently she had begun to appreciate the way it balanced out the sweet. 

“Shit!”

Phryne remembered the toast just in time, burning the tips of her fingers again as she tossed it on to the plate. As she picked up the knife, the kettle started whistling.

“Bugger!”

She rushed to stop the whistle turning into a screech. Now, with a boiling hot kettle in one hand and a butter laden knife in the other she could not decide whether to go back to the toast or make the tea.

“Pull yourself together,’ she admonished herself sharply.

Accordingly, she set down both burdens, spooned tea leaves into the pot, covered them with water and finished making the toast whilst they were brewing. When everything was done she placed breakfast on the serving tray and wandered back to bed...

... where the blankets were piled up in the middle. She smiled.

“Breakfast!” she announced, taking a seat on the side with the tray in her lap.

The bedding appeared unmoved. She considered the lack of interest being displayed, eventually putting the tray on the bedside table to lie facing the pile.

“How are you not hungry? You are always hungry.” Receiving no response she poked the blankets.

There was a grunt.

“Pardon?” she said.

“I am hungry,” came the reply from deep within the blankets.

“Good, I’ve made toast.”

An arm snaked out of the blankets; tanned, hair bleached blonde by the sun, spare without an ounce of excess flesh. Phryne licked her lips, remembering how it felt to have those arms wrapped firmly around her.

“Not hungry for toast,” the lump of bedding told her as the hand at the end of the arm began to search, when it found her shoulder it tightened it’s fingers around her flesh; gentle but firm enough for its tendons stand out.

“Thirsty then? There's tea too,” Phryne chirped.

The hand made its way down to rest on her breast. “Don’t want tea either,” came the sulky reply.

Phryne leaned back to pick up a slice of toast, which had the pleasant outcome of the hand falling to rest over her nipple. “Are you aware it is nearly eight o’clock? I always assumed you would be an early riser.”

The hand was running the back of it’s fingers lightly across her nipple. “I am - normally - but last night was not how I usually spend my evenings,” she was informed.

“Well, I've never woken up this hungry before so I am going to eat.” She shuffled up the bed to lean against the headrest and reached for her tea. As she indulged, the hand made its way down to rest at the top of her thigh, tracing light circles increasingly closer to where her legs met. Phryne, munching into her second piece of toast, watched it’s journey with interest. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” she asked.

The lump snuggled into her hip. By this time the hand had found the edges of her dressing gown, pulling them aside and was working its way back up her inner thigh. “You cold?" it asked, "Shall I put the blankets over you?”

The thought of being closer to him was entirely too enticing to refuse. “Please,” she assented.

The hand withdrew beneath the blankets then flicked them across her lower body. Phryne gasped in pleased surprise as his naked body pushed up against the side of her leg, head on her hip and hand now resting at the junction of her thighs. Putting her cup down she adjusted her legs to enable his wandering hand access to a part of her that was definitely not cold.

He raised his head, shrugging the blanket off until it fell below his shoulders; dark hair tousled, blue eyes bright, skin an alluring mix of tan from the sun and cream where it was normally hidden under all his layers. “I want to touch you,” he murmured, stroking the back of his fingers between her legs.

She nodded.

“You’re not really cold, are you?” he checked, when she shook her head he threw the blankets off. Propping himself up on one elbow he began his exploration. She was already wet, two years of anticipation would do that to a girl. He pushed a finger just a fraction inside her, withdrawing before pushing in ever so slightly more. He withdrew completely and repeated - again... and again. Phryne relaxed into the rhythm, enjoying the ever increasing sensitivity he was creating; her eyes closing as she focused on the building sensation. Then, with one slick finger, he stroked her clitoris and she nearly flew off the bed.

He made to pull his hand away, “Too much?”

She grabbed his hand, placing it firmly back where it had been. “No, I wasn’t expecting you to do that but you should definitely do it again.”

He did and she sighed her approval as he moved the tip of his finger around and across her sensitive bud. She opened her legs wider. He dipped his fingers back inside her, coating two fingers this time before returning to circle her clit. His pace was slow but relentless. He re-wet his fingers and continued his ministrations, the movements slightly more erratic this time, she wasn’t complaining - there was something even more arousing in not knowing the path he would take.

“Keep going,” she moaned, “it feels so good.”

Each time he slicked his fingers he would press deeper inside her, at first just the one finger, now two, but never venturing too far. She knew he was watching his fingers enter her and so, the next time he did it she rocked her hips up forcing his fingers in deeper than he had intended. He hissed.

“Do you like it,” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, eyes fixed on her face as he pushed his fingers even deeper and she bit her lip, “...you’ve no idea how hard I am right now.”

“I haven’t got my device in but I can…” she made to get up.

“No. Stay. I want to carry on doing this.”

She let her body go lax, if he wanted to use his fingers to bring her to a climax she wasn’t going to argue. “But what about you?” she remembered to ask.

“I can sort that out,” he offered, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve touched myself whilst thinking of you.”

Her eyes widened, that he would share something so intimate this soon was thrilling - it appeared that, when Jack Robinson gave himself to you, he held nothing back.

“That is a sight I would not object to,” she assured him.

“Let me just…” he pulled away from her as he spoke and she instantly missed his heat. He sat up, gently guiding her legs to a bent position before he knelt between her thighs, his knees resting either side of her buttocks. It was obvious that he had not exaggerated the effect touching her had on him. It was equally clear that he had in fact spent some time thinking about how to do this. He slipped two fingers back into her heat, this time going much deeper. Her hips rocked up on their own accord.

“Damn, that’s good,” she moaned raggedly, eyes closing and head falling back

His only response was to withdraw his fingers and press in again. An action he repeated several times before returning his attentions back to her clit. When she remembered to open her eyes she was rewarded with the sight of him slowly moving his hand, wet with her arousal, up and down his cock with his eyes firmly fixed on where his thumb continued to slide smoothly between her legs. When his fingers pressed inside her at the same time as he trailed his thumb across her clit, she lost control.

“Jack!” she cried, in a way which made it very clear he should not stop.

He pushed further, his fingers naturally hooking forward towards his thumb, eliciting a high pitched squeal from her as he hit all the right places.

“Oh, good… good,” she panted, rocking up to stop him from withdrawing his fingers.

He began to stroke himself faster and harder, his own wetness now joining hers as his hand moved. When she climaxed Phryne placed her hand over his and he came hard as they stroked his cock together.

She squeezed once before releasing him to rock back on his heels and catch his breath. She made no attempt to cover herself or to remove the evidence of his pleasure now cooling on her skin. His eyes crinkled in appreciation and, after placing his hands against the headboard to take his weight, he leaned down to kiss her.

“How long before your ship leaves?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck to stop him moving away.

“Eleven days,” he replied, kissing her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the toaster that I attempted to describe at the start of the chapter
> 
> If you ever have the misfortune to find it is the only way to make toast I would strongly recommend you have bread instead.


	2. Aquarius Jan 21-Feb 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To be someone's soft place to land is a beautiful role. You've needed that in your own life, when it wasn't there and when it was. You know the difference, and so you're happy to provide._  
>  _\- Stuff.co.nz 1 Feb 2019_

When a row of street lamps flickered into life above his head Jack checked his watch. Damn. It was later than he had thought. He really should stop to grab something to eat. He glanced at his wrist again. No, no time - he continued striding along the street eagerly looking for the entrance to the apartment.

He was surprised, and more than a little disappointed, when he found the door was locked. Without any of his previous enthusiasm he searched his pockets for the key, unlocked the door and stepped inside, only to find himself thrown backwards, the door slamming shut as he hit it, the handle digging painfully into his side. Before he could call out a hand was slapped over his mouth and he found himself staring into eyes he couldn’t read.

The hand was removed, burying itself deep into his hair to drag his head back, exposing his throat.

He swallowed hard, his heart racing.

A dark chuckle from his captor did nothing to calm him.

“I...” Jack started.

His hair was given a sharp tug.

He stopped talking.

The pressure in his hair remained.

His eyes moved quickly around the large room that comprised both the kitchen and living space of the apartment. To his right was the empty bedroom and in front of him an alcove within which nestled a large, solid daybed with overly generous curtains billowing around the open window above it. As the edge of the delicate material fluttered he glimpsed a shadow. His brow furrowed.

The pressure on his scalp loosened, his captor shooting a quick glance in the direction he was looking - it was the merest of moments but all he needed - he let himself fall in the direction his head was being dragged, ducking as she lost her balance and before she could recover he was behind her holding her hands firmly at the small of her back.

She relaxed back against his chest, laughing. “Damn, you’re good,” she complimented him.

“And curiosity killed the cat,” he said, his mouth at her ear.

“Noted, Inspector.”

He began to kiss down the side of her neck. It had been a whole eight hours since he had held her in his arms and even though they had done little but make love yesterday he was hungry for her again. “I thought you were still out,” he managed between kisses.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “A woman alone in a strange city, surely you don't expect me to leave the door unlocked?"

“And your reason for accosting me when I got in?” He suckled gently on a freckle just below her ear.

“It's dark, you could have been anyone.”

“Anyone who happened to have a key to the door,” he pointed out.

She pouted. “Jack, I’ve spent all day surrounded by lawyers and accountants, don’t begrudge me a bit of excitement.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Worse," she sighed, "but this mess is of my own making and I'll get it sorted out. I might be frustrated. Annoyed. Potentially murderous but eventually I'll get my way.” She turned her head to kiss him, "I always do. And your day? Were the museums and galleries full of exciting things?”

He released her hands, slid his own down the curve of her buttocks before bringing them back to rest on her hips. “I was mostly distracted by thoughts of you on that bed under the window.” With just ten days to make sure that, if she ever came back to Melbourne, he would be one of the things she was looking forward to - holding back was not part of his current plan. “You were naked, with me between your thighs.”

“Inspector! Shame on you, that's hardly an appropriate thought for a public place.”

His hands made their way up to her breasts. “It gets worse, I imagined how hard your nipples would be against my tongue.” One hand dropped to nestle between her legs. “And I could almost taste how wet you were.”

Her head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes shut, a wide smile on her face. “Jack, have I mentioned how much my day has improved since you arrived?”

He breathed in the scent of her soft, warm skin. “I was inside you,” he pushed himself against the softness of her arse, “you had your legs wrapped around me, urging me on. Deeper. Harder. Faster.” With each word he pulsed against her.

She had an arm above her head now, fingers digging into his scalp. "I want you," she said, "now, by the window.” She pulled away, her hips swaying far more than necessary as she crossed the room and crawled onto daybed. Gazing back at him over her shoulder, she flicked her dress up, giving him a glimpse of ivory silk french knickers and stockings. “Unless there’s something else you’d rather do?”

He walked towards her, discarding his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt and removing the rest of his clothes so he stood naked behind her. Placing one knee on the bed he slipped his hands under her skirt, running them up her thighs and further to her waist where he found the buttons that secured her lingerie. “May I?”

“If you don't, you better have a damn good reason why not.”

His face creased in amusement as he made short work of the side fastening and removed the item under discussion. Not the stockings though, the stockings, he thought, running his hands along their lace tops, could stay. His hands travelled back up to caress the softness of her buttocks. He bent to kiss the base of her spine and down to where the curve of her arse began. He stroked a hand down the outside of her thigh, across the lace of her stockings and then up her inner thigh.

She made a low smooth sound that went straight to his groin.

His finger slid between her legs.

She gasped and spread her legs wider.

His hand curled around her hip bone to hold her steady as he watched his finger moving inside her. She was wet, very wet and his teeth bit into his lip when he finally forced himself to remove his finger. 

He raised his eyes to find her watching him, eyes glazed, the tip of her tongue visible between her parted lips. He grasped his cock, stroking himself as she watched. His eyes dropped and he began to slide in the slickness between her legs, rubbing against her until the delicious friction he had created had them both breathless. Then he changed angle and stilled before slowly, ever so slowly, leaning in.

“Oh, damn..." she breathed out, "you feel amazing."

When he was completely inside her, his entire body tense, he paused to savour the sensation. Finally he moved. Slowly at first making sure she was comfortable, then his pace increased until their bodies were slapping together, the need between them urgent. But it wasn't enough, he wanted more. Pulling her up onto her knees, his hands covered her breasts and he held her tight against his chest as he pumped into her.

He felt her struggle and immediately loosened his grip, only to find she was clawing at the remainder of her clothes.

“I need... your skin... on my skin.” 

Nodding, he grabbed her dress and slip, pulling them over her head and flung them away. Tangling his hand in her hair he turned her face towards him and kissed her. Hard.

She moaned her approval into his mouth as she met every thrust with the same urgency him, her softness melting into him until he wasn't sure where he ended and she began.

“Deeper,” she urged.

He grasped her hip to help drive himself in and her hand immediately covered his.

“Harder!”

His fingers clenched around her breast and he slammed into her.

“Faster,” she demanded, her fingers digging into his forearm.

He redoubled his efforts but his thrusts soon became shorter, quicker and he knew he wouldn't last long. “Phryne... come for me… want to feel you... squeeze me… lose control… make me-”

She threw her head back, calling out his name as she climaxed.

He swore as she clenched around him, letting it take him over the edge, burying his head into her neck he sucked strongly on her sensitive skin and felt her come again. He held her close as the tension between them faded, until all that remained was the closeness that exists between satisfied lovers. A feeling that, just a few months ago, he thought he would never know.

As she relaxed into his arms he sat back on his ankles, taking her weight. He blew on her neck, nibbling around the bruise and pressing his lips gently against it. “You’ll have to wear a scarf to your meetings tomorrow,” he apologised.

She placed her hand on his cheek and turned to kiss his jaw. “Or maybe it will be more fun to watch them speculate.”

His arms tightened around her. “I know I'll spend all day thinking about how it got there.”

“Good,” she said, “I like the effect thinking about making love to me has on you. But...” she gently removed his arms and sat up, “... right now, I should draw the curtains and find us some light.” She leaned over to close the curtains. There was a lamp on a small table beside them, sitting on the edge of the bed she began to rummage through the drawer. “There must be matches in here somewhere.”

Jack had rearranged himself to lie curled around her. “In my trouser pocket,” he suggested.

She found his clothing on the floor, located a box and struck a match, but didn't light the lamp.

He looked up from where he was busy kissing the side of her thigh.

The match box was open and she was examining it closely. The flame sputtered and went out. She struck another match and this time lit the wick. Turning the now closed box over in her hand with a puzzled expression on her face, she proclaimed, “These matches are from Melbourne.” She looked at him sternly. “Jack Robinson! You have been out having adventures whilst I’ve been stuck in stuffy rooms, with even stuffier men talking at me.”

He grinned at her determination to find a mystery in everything. “Not intentionally," he protested, "I was on my way to the gallery when a young lady had her purse snatched. I was able to retrieve it but the thief escaped in the crowd.”

“Always the hero,” she ruffled his hair.

“Miss Conrad,” he continued, “was attempting to calm her nerves with a cigarette when her uncle descended upon us and I found myself hurriedly put in possession of both matches and a half-smoked cigarette.”

“Aha! So she is hiding her vice and you are an accomplice in her deceit.”

“Apparently I am.”

“How scandalous, Inspector,” she smiled down at him.

“If it’s scandal you’re looking for...” His hands made their way up to her breasts.

“And this,” Phryne said with delight, “is why you can't get up in the mornings.”

“Mornings," he pulled her back down, "are seriously overrated.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers may find Phryne's ability to make a Sherlockian deduction in respect of a box of matches unbelievable, however, unlike many parts of this story, this is not ~~just~~ a poorly constructed plot point.
> 
> Bryant & May, one of the most popular brands of matches in Australia, had one factory and it was based in Richmond, Melbourne.


	3. Pisces Feb 20 - Mar 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When you're communicating with others, avoid being a confusing Fish. The more open you are - and the more straight-forward your approach - the better the final outcome will be._  
>  _\- NZ Herald 1 Mar 201_ 9

The jazz band in the hotel lounge was as good as any she had heard, tapping her foot to the beat she glanced at her wrist and took a long swig of gin.

“Phryne Fisher, if I was a less confident man I'd be worried about the number of times you have checked that watch.”

Her hand dropped to her lap. “Sorry, I thought I was being more discreet than that.”

Duncan Rhodes KC gave one of his patented 1,000 watt smiles. “Don't worry, I suspect no one else noticed.”

A glance around the table told her he was right, her four other guests appeared oblivious to the lapse in manners. Relieved she returned her attention to her old friend. “I honestly don't know what I would have done without you these last few days.”

Adjusting his tie unnecessarily, his diamond cuff links glistened in the candle light. ”You'd have found some other love struck fool to save you.”

“Love struck? You?”

Duncan’s right hand clutched at his Saville Row suit in the vicinity of his heart; he looked her directly in the eyes and, in a voice low and sincere declared, “It's true - you, Phryne Fisher, are the one true love of my life, the light in my darkness, my all and my everything.”

She could barely contain her laughter. “Don’t be so bloody absurd.”

At his look, overflowing with faux hurt and despair, she gave up trying and laughed out loud.

After the barest of pauses – entirely for dramatic effect - he joined her,  “Never change, my darling, I don't think I could bear it,” he told her.

“Everybody changes, Duncan, even me.”

He looked aghast. “Surely not.”

She smiled, having a serious conversation with this man was impossible, unless you were paying him and even then only if he felt it was in your best interests to understand him. She toyed with the glass in her hands, “As it happens I've met someone.” 

“I imagine you meet people all the time,” he said carefully.

“Not like this, I've never met anyone like this before.”

Leaning forward his eyes bored into hers as though she were a witness on the stand, “Am I to understand that the endlessly exotic Phryne Fisher is in love with a colonial public servant?" 

A careless shrug, “I suspect his friends are equally surprised at his choice. And how did you know I was talking about Jack, anyway?”

He relaxed back in his chair, “If I had a pound for every time today you've brushed that carefully concealed mark on your neck and smiled.”

She winced, the man really did notice everything. “Given the size of the bill I received from your office this morning it would surely be unethical for you to make a penny more out of me.”

The rich, well-crafted laugh sounded again. “Quality is always worth its weight in gold. Speaking of which, unless I'm mistaken - which I very rarely am - your beau has just arrived.”

Her eyes darted to the doorway where Jack stood in tuxedo, calmly scanning the room and looking spectacularly handsome. The anticipation she had nursed all evening blossomed into full-blown delight, she glanced at Duncan. “I know I'm being awfully rude,” she turned back to Jack, who had spotted her and was heading towards them “Again. But would you mind if I-”

“Mind? Why I positively insist you abandon us this instant,” Duncan cut over her.

With a grin she leapt from her chair, almost skipping the short distance to her lover. “Dance with me?” she asked, extending a pale elegant arm.

Taking her hand he stepped in so their bodies were touching. “I thought you were never going to ask.”

“You exasperating man, I have done nothing but ask from the day I first set eyes on you.”

A ghost of a smile played across his lips, “That is not exactly how I remember things.”

“And yet that doesn't make it any less true,” she pointed out as she led him to the dance floor where they took up a stance that was far too close for the early evening. Three dances in, she spotted Duncan weaving his way through the other couples. Sensing her distraction Jack glanced around, saw the reason and brought them to a graceful stop; loosening his hold so she could speak to her friend.

“We’re heading to the club,” Duncan told her.

“I may see you there,” she replied.

He shot a glance at Jack before leaning in to speak confidentially in her ear, “Liar. The only thing you’re intending to do is find somewhere private to investigate your inspector.”

Eyes sparkling, she threw back her head and laughed.

As Duncan headed to the door Jack whirled her back into the dance but when the next tune started she demurred. “It's been another long day, do you mind if we head back?”

“You don’t want to join your friend at the club?”

“No, what I want to do isn’t appropriate in a public place.”

Taking the hint, he had collected her coat and hailed a taxi almost before she had a chance to settle the bill. When they were back at the apartment he poured them both whiskey as she headed to their bedroom to remove her make-up and change into her dressing gown. When she returned, Jack had divested himself of his tuxedo jacket and was undoing the bow tie.

“Here, let me do that for you,” she said, coming to stand in front of him.

“It’s alright I can-” she gave him an enquiring look and he quickly let his hands drop to his side. “Sorry, it’s just I’m not used to-”

“-letting someone help you?”

“No,” he bit his lip and looked away, “having someone who wants to.”

“Oh Jack,” her voice was barely above a whisper and her hands less than steady as she loosened the knot. Unbuttoning his waist coat and shirt she slipped her hands across warm skin before lowering her lips to trail kisses across his chest. She could feel him trembling under her touch, goose bumps forming as she trailed her fingers down his side to his waistband, and forward to undo his trousers.

She gazed up, to find him watching her. The desire she saw on his face was irresistible and she stretched up to claim his lips, her hands moving back to his hips to pull him tight against her. She felt his arms encircle her, his fingers running through her hair. She would never get enough of the way he held nothing back when they kissed. When he let her go she tugged him into their bedroom, pushing his clothes off as they went.

As he bent over to remove his trousers she saw a bruise; dark and angry. She moved behind him, fingers tracing lightly around it's edges. “What happened here? You didn’t mention injuring yourself retrieving Miss Conrad's purse. Or did you walk into something?” She considered its location, it was too high for a table.

“Door handle.”

“Door hand...” She froze as understanding dawned. “Did I do this? Last night?”

“It doesn’t matter - I’ve had worse,” he assured her, as he finished undressing.

“During sex?”

“What?” He turned so he could see her, “No, of course not, I was talking about on the job-”

“-Jack, that’s a very different thing from making love unless...” she paused, “did you think I meant to hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

He looked so vulnerable, standing naked before her admitting he was so eager for her touch that he would willingly let her hurt him if that's what it took. A fierce need to protect him welled up inside her. Wrapping her arms around him, mindful of the bruise, she pulled him into another kiss. He felt hard, solid, and strong against her as she poured herself deeper into their embrace.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” she whispered, when they finally came up for air, “Let me make it up to you?”

He looked at her from under lowered lashes, “Depends, what do you have in mind?”

She insinuated her hand between them to rest lightly on his cock.

His eyes narrowed as if he was seriously weighing up her offer, “It hurt quite a lot, you know, when you pushed me into the door handle.”

Her hand tightened around him.

His eyes were dark with want as he hardened in her grasp, “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrange...”

She lowered herself to her knees, parting her lips to flick her tongue against the sensitive skin at his tip. “Would this do it?” she asked, gazing up at him as she took him slowly into her mouth.

He made a strangled noise. “Christ, Phryne. You can cover me with bruises if that's how you apologise.”

She pulled back, “Lie on the bed, I have an idea.”

Going to her dresser, she opened a tin, scooped a generous amount of it's contents out before kneeling on the bed beside him. He looked at her suspiciously as she rubbed her hands together. “Trust me,” she said, encircling his shaft and running her warm, greased hands slowly down.

“Shit!” His hips bucked up.

She paused when she reached his base.

“Do it again,” he pleaded, his hips pulsing as he tried to recapture the sensation.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Unequivocally. Now, do it again. Please.”

Soon she had him moaning beneath her hands, his fingers tangled in the blanket as he struggled to control himself. It was one of the most erotic things she had ever seen and, though she knew she could push him over the edge, she preferred to have him choose when to let go. As she shifted slightly to change the angle of her strokes she felt his hand slide beneath her dressing gown and up the outside of her leg.

“Come here so I can touch you."

“This is supposed to be my apology,” she pointed out.

“You didn't do it on purpose, no need to apologise.”

“Still...”

“Alright then, I want me touching you to be part of your apology.”

It was a good argument and she wasn't that invested in disagreeing – she shuffled around and was immediately rewarded by his finger sliding through her wetness. From the sounds they both made it was hard to know who enjoyed it more. She spread her legs wider to give him better access, but he pushed against her arse, clearly wanting her on her hands and knees.

“Apology, Jack,” she reminded him, as she was forced to remove her hands from him to keep her balance.

“Lie on your side with your leg over my chest,” he suggested, his hand now caressing her foot.

She thought about it, the position would allow her to rub against his body which was incredibly appealing. Draping herself over him, supporting herself on one arm as she began to stroke him again, focusing now just on the head of his cock. The sensation of his body moving under her was deliciously distracting and she rested her forehead on his thigh breathing heavily. When she felt his finger glide across her clit, she found herself desperately kissing and licking any part of him she could reach, which had him bucking harder beneath her. Before she knew it she was rutting against him, mindlessly repeating his name.

“Phryne,” he warned, “I'm going to-“

“Yes,” she panted, “come for me, Jack... come...” The rest of her words were lost in her own orgasm as she watched him finally lose control. Releasing her hold on his cock, she let her upper body collapse, wrapping her arms tightly around his leg as she tried to catch her breath. Eventually, she became aware of his hand stroking her thigh.

“Still with me?” he asked.

She rolled off him, ignoring the disgruntled sounds he made, though they made her smile. It took him less than a second to start stroking her thigh again. Which made her smile wider. Taking a deep breath she sat up on the edge of the bed, only to collapse back on the bed beside him again but this time with a pillow beneath her head. “Hello,” she said.

His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Hello,” he replied.

She caressed the side of his face, "Why don't you tell me about your day?"

He spoke of wandering the waterfront; he described fishermen plying their craft, women selling produce and the antics of children - who he clearly felt should have been at school. She asked questions and laughed at some of his observations and they talked late into the night. Finally, when they were both struggling to keep their eyes open she stilled his lips with a finger, “Go to sleep. Jack. We can talk tomorrow, and the next day and all the days after that.”

“Ship going in nine days,” he mumbled, already half asleep and snuggling in closer to her.

“Hush,” she soothed him, "Sleep." She brushed an errant curl from his forehead, Jack Robinson sated and drowsy was ridiculously adorable. “I won’t ever let you regret choosing me,” she promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaseline was the cure-all wonder drug of it's day. It was invented in the 1870's by an American chemist from a waste product the workers on the oil fields were using to heal cuts and treat burns. 
> 
> In World War One vaseline was a popular item in parcels from home. Soldiers used it as sunscreen, smeared it on their faces as protection from the cold, covered their feet in it to avoid trench foot and there were one or two other things they found it useful for. 
> 
> An indispensable item in every woman's make-up kit, it kept those pencil-thin eyebrows in perfect form, a light coating on the eyelids before applying eye shadow created the dramatic effect made popular by Greta Garbo, and mixed with coal dust it could be applied to the eyelashes to darken them - Mabel's brother, who was a chemist, saw her do this and created mascara under the brand name Mabelline (see what he did there?)


	4. Aries Mar 21 - Apr 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Be bolder, share the hopes and desires you have with others. You receive a lot of positive reactions which give you additional motivation to make your dreams a reality._  
>  _\- NZ City 6 Apr 2019_

As the everyday noise of a city waking floated up from the streets he stretched his feet beneath the soft cotton sheets and took a deep breath. The scent of their love-making filled his senses. He smiled. Time to get up, make her breakfast, she'd appreciate that. Another deep breath and the memory of her in the throes of ecstasy had him reconsidering his plans - maybe some mutual appreciation first… he reached out, but the bed beside him was empty.

His eyes flew open. Rolling onto his back, he listened for sounds from the other room. Nothing. Returning to his side, he considered the emptiness. Was that a note on her pillow? He picked it up.

_Gone to see Duncan._

He slumped back, eyes on the ceiling. Who the hell was Duncan when he was at home? An image from last night drifted across his mind; a man whispering in her ear, her delighted laughter. His chest tightened.

A thud, followed by the grating of unoiled hinges warned him the front door was opening.

“Only me,” Phryne sung out. “I’ve got breakfast.”

She appeared at the bedroom door. “Now that is the sort of thing a woman likes to come home to.”

She disappeared.

“Give me a moment to find a tray.”

She reappeared.

“And don’t even think about getting out of that bed, I have exciting things to tell you...” her eyes raked over his body, “and then even more exciting things to do to you.”

She disappeared again.

To the bangs and clatter of Phryne being domestic he told himself there was no point spending the next eight days imagining her with other men. When a small voice helpfully added he had the rest of his life to do that, he told it to bugger off. By the time she stepped back in the room, tray laden with baked goods and surrounded by the aroma of good coffee, he had banished all thoughts of suave whispering men.

Placing the tray on the bed, she took a seat beside it. “I’ve just met the extremely handsome and charming uncle of your Miss Conrad.” She picked up a pastry. “Tell me, do the good looks run in the family?”

It couldn’t be much later than seven; had she run into the man at the bakery? And what was she intending to do with that croissant? Eyes fixed firmly on the pastry, he murmured his assent.

“We have a case.” She held out the pastry, “Try this, it’s delicious.”

Their eyes met as he leaned forward to take a bite.

She grinned. “Do you have any idea how erotic it is when you do that?”

He chewed; she was right; it was delicious.

A dramatic sigh, “Whatever am I going to do with you?” she asked, before holding the pastry out again. “Anyway, in addition to her good looks, Miss Conrad is also an accomplished concert pianist - a fact I’m surprised you didn’t learn yourself, Jack.”

“When we met, I barely had time to light her cigarette before her uncle showed up,” he protested. “It was almost as if-”

“-as if he had her under surveillance?”

“Exactly.” A hot bread roll stuffed with ham and melted cheese caught his attention; it looked like a major improvement on his normal vegemite on toast.

“Mr Conrad believes his niece has formed a secret attachment.” Leaning towards him she mock whispered, “With a gentleman.”

He helped himself to coffee. “Miss Conrad struck me as more than capable of making her own choices. Romantic or otherwise.”

“She wouldn’t be the first girl to let her heart rule her head.”

He stopped mid-sip. “You’re not seriously telling me you’re going to interfere with the woman’s right to make her own decisions?”

“That’s the sort of liberal-minded nonsense her uncle is worried you’re filling her pretty head with.”

“Me?” The bread roll in his hand halted tantalisingly close to his mouth. “What’s it got to do with me?”

Phryne placed the plate of pastries on his lap, the rest of the tray on the floor and made herself comfortable on the bed beside him. “Did I not mention? He’s convinced himself you’re the man she’s in love with.”

Bread roll forgotten he struggled to see the logic. “Based on a two-minute conversation over a cigarette?”

“Don’t underestimate your charms, Jack,” she chided, “but also this is a man who is paying _me_ to trick his neice into disclosing the name of her lover.” She leaned across to tweak his nose. “You didn’t really think that was our case, did you?”

With a shrug he turned his attention back to the bread roll. “This private detectoring is far too tricky for a simple policeman like me,” he said, taking a bite.

“Nonsense, you have the makings of a fine Watson,” she assured him. “But our actual client is my lawyer, Duncan, who handles Miss Conrad’s financial affairs.”

So, he thought, the mysterious Duncan was neither the producer of these excellent baked goods nor the whispering man from last night. “Bookkeeping is not one of my specialities,” he pointed out.

“Luckily this isn’t about accounting but about Miss Conrad’s mother who disappeared seven years ago.”

“Cold cases are difficult, Phryne, and they take time,” he warned between mouthfuls, “The reliability of witnesses rarely improves with the passing of years. Assuming you can even find them.”

“All good points, my dear Watson, but we have a written confession signed in front of two readily available witnesses.”

“Great, tell your lawyer to hand it to the police. Should be an open-and-closed case.”

“It’s not that easy, Jack.”

“Why am I not surprised? Is it about money?”

“Isn’t it always?”

Another pastry and a shrug. “Not always, sometimes it’s about love.”

He winced, figuratively. Why had he mentioned love? Would she think it was on his mind? It was, but he didn't want her heading for the hills because he was in love - there wasn't enough time for that. Shit, was an awkward silence building between them? Or was he imagining it? Not daring to look at her, he had a terrible feeling he was blushing.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should tell me about the case.”

“A month ago…”

His insides unclenched, she had taken his words at face value so he was over-thinking things as normal.

“...Miss Conrad’s mother was declared dead in absentia and her estate passed to her husband, who incidentally _is not_ Miss Conrad’s father but _is_ the man who made the confession.”

“You know the murderer can’t benefit from his crime, the mother’s estate will go to Miss Conrad.”

Phryne shook her head. “Miss Conrad was born out of wedlock and legally adopted. As her mother didn’t leave a will she has no claim.”

“Ah,” he agreed, “but on the upside Miss Conrad appears to be doing all right without her mother’s money.”

“Her performances are popular but Duncan would tell you there’s no such thing as too much money.”

He grunted, fairly sure he could give at least a dozen examples of people who had far more money than was good for them, starting with Phryne’s own father.

“And anyway," she continued, "I’m more concerned that someone will gain from a false deathbed confession."

Now that was interesting. “Who inherits the money?”

“The only surviving relative, a sister who is married to a handsome, charming man who thinks you are leading his niece astray, and also happens to be one of the witnesses to the confession.”

“So,” he surmised, “your theory is Mr Conrad induced his dying brother-in-law to write a false confession? And taking his ridiculous case is a ploy to get close to him for your real case?”

Phryne leaned across to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Exactly, Watson. And so, if you’re finished?” She took his empty cup from him. “We should make a start.” She placed the remains of their breakfast on the floor.

He made to rise.

She grabbed his arm.

He considered the fingers wrapped around his bicep, eyes sliding up her arm until he met her eyes.

“Inspector, you’re a suspect in one of my investigations. I need to question you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, even a simple policeman could hear the promise in this line of enquiry. Lying back he watched her undress, confident this would be the best interview he had ever taken part in.

Straddling his hips, she interlaced their fingers and guided his hands to either side of his head. “Just in case you intend to be uncooperative,” she explained.

Given the spectacular view he now had of her breasts, objecting was not top of mind.

“Let me see,” Phryne pondered from above him. “The first step to a successful interrogation is to create a rapport.”

“I think,” he suggested, as he hardened, “you can probably move on to the next step.”

“It’s also imperative that the interviewee knows who is in control of the process.” She squeezed his hands.

“Sorry,” he offered.

“How would you describe the nature of your relationship with Miss Conrad?”

“Really?” He hadn’t been expecting actual questions.

She squeezed again. “Answer the question.”

“Fleeting,” was his abrupt response.

“Did she appear overly grateful when you retrieved her handbag?”

“Not particularly, though no doubt it contained items of personal value to her.”

“Including mementos from her lover?”

“That question presupposes she has a lover.”

Phryne dropped her head to nip his ear with her teeth. “Do I need to remind you who is in charge?”

He sucked in a breath, hoping she was done with questions because he had other things on his mind.

“And so there was nothing in your interactions with Miss Conrad that would suggest you were anything more than a helpful citizen?”

This time the breath he sucked in had nothing to do with his arousal. “Interactions?”

“Are you unfamiliar with the word, Inspector?” She arched an eyebrow. “It is the plural of interaction.”

“How do you?” A thought struck. “He is watching her.”

“Aha! You admit to meeting Miss Conrad more than once.”

This conversation was not even remotely appropriate in their current circumstances. “Phryne, let’s get up and discuss this properly.”

The softness of her breasts pressed down against his body. “Do you really want to get out of bed, Jack?” she asked, burying her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, tongue laving at his sensitive skin.

“No,” he replied, his voice thickening as she rolled her hips in a way that felt exquisite against his erection.

She pulled away. “So, yesterday you met with a young woman you find attractive-”

“-What? I never said-”

“But you did, I asked you if good looks ran in the family and you agreed.”

Horrified by her interpretation of his words, he protested, “That doesn’t mean I’m attracted to her.”

“Because she’s almost young enough to be your daughter?”

“That’s definitely one good reason-”

“-What other reasons do you have?”

“How many do you need?” he countered. “She’s a classically trained pianist from New York Society whereas I grew up in Richmond, where most people struggled to meet the requirements of working class and the only training on offer was what to do in a factory.”

Phryne’s eyes narrowed. “So you have a problem with her wealth?”

“What? No, money has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

He pursed his lips, searching for the right words. “Miss Conrad is a sweet, innocent young woman who-”

“-You’re supposed to be explaining why you’re _not_ attracted to her-”

“-If you’ll just let me finish-”

“-Why? Do you want to add beautiful and talented to your description of the woman you’re _not_ attracted to-”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Phryne!” His head was reeling. How had this conversation gone so wrong? “You of all people should understand… What on earth have I got in common with someone who has lived a life as narrow and safe as Miss Conrad?”

She blinked.

“Do you think she’s ever held a man as he’s bled out?”

Her expression softened.

“Or broken the news that a loved one is never coming home.”

She loosened her grip on his hands.

“Fortunately for her, she isn’t like us and anyway I-” He stopped himself but the tilt of her head and the way her eyes sharpened told him she hadn’t missed his slip of the tongue.

“You what?” she demanded.

“I could never be attracted to her,” he tried.

“No,” she shook her head. “That’s not what you were going to say.”

Denial seemed his only course; he took it. “You don’t know that.”

She bent to whisper in his ear, “Which is why this interrogation is about to become much more serious, Inspector.”

“I’m not saying another thing.”

“That sounds like a challenge.” She let the full weight of her body rest on him.

He groaned inwardly at his foolish choice of words. When her teeth nipped at his neck, he groaned aloud. Sitting up, she guided his hands to her breasts, encouraging him to press into the soft flesh and she did the thing with her hips again, repeatedly. It was delicious torture, and he never wanted it to end but all too soon she pulled his hands away, her fingers encircling his wrists to push his hands above his head.

As she stretched over him, a nipple passed close to his mouth and he lifted his head.

“Ah, ah,” she jerked away. “Not till you tell me what you were going to say.”

He lowered his head back to the pillow and shook it.

“Stop being so damn stubborn.” She let go of his left hand.

Fingers buried in her hair, pulling her head down until their mouths joined in a passionate kiss. She moved slightly, and then his back arched in pleasure as he found himself pushing inside her. His free hand clutched at her hip as she rode him but when she pulled away he didn’t try to hold her.

Hovering above him, she offered a choice, “I’ll stop the questions if you want.”

For a fraction of a second he wondered if he was strong enough to keep his secret but his desire to play the game was too great. He lifted his hand to join the other one above his head.

Eyes glinting, her fingers encircled his wrist and she sunk down on him again. “What were you going to say?”

He realised he may have overestimated his ability to resist her, then she started to fuck him in earnest and he knew he was in serious trouble.

“Tell... me,” she demanded.

He was so close he could taste it. His head rocked back and he pushed up, going as deep as he could. “I love you,” he blurted out.

She froze.

_Shit!_

Nails dug into his wrists.

_What had he done?_

“Say it again.”

_What?_

“Again! Say it!”

“I lov…” his words faded to an incoherent moan as she kissed him so savagely he was sure his lip was bleeding.

She pulled back so far only the head of his cock was still inside her. "Again."

Though still confused by her reaction, he complied. “I love yo…”

She lowered herself down, and then back up. 

This time he didn’t wait for her to ask. “I love you.”

She ground down on him. Biting his lip, he tried to hang on as she used his body to bring herself pleasure. It was a lost cause, but his complete loss of control increased her excitement and she collapsed on top of him seconds later.

As she lay limp he stroked his fingers down her spine. It didn’t matter that she didn’t feel as deeply for him, he didn’t expect her to, it was enough that she wanted his love. More than enough.

A half-hearted attempt to roll off him left their legs entwined and her face somewhere by his shoulder. “You should know… most satisfying interrogation… ever,” she mumbled.

“A new technique to add to your already dazzling array of investigative tools?” he teased.

A hand was raised only to flop ineffectually on his chest. “Don’t be cheeky... not looking for a confession like that from anyone else.”

He grinned up at the ceiling. “Good to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During World War One the supplies of British Marmite to the Commonwealth dried up because of those pesky German U-boats so Cyril Callister, a chemist from rural Victoria, set about creating Australia's very own version of yeastie goodness.
> 
>  
> 
> My culinary recommendation is that you slather cold toast with butter - Anchor is best ; ) - and then apply a thin coating of vegemite for a delicious and nutritious breakfast. NEVER confuse this product with marmite (which is best eaten with white bread, a heavy layer of Anchor butter and ready salted potato chips/crisps.)


	5. Taurus  Apr 21 - May 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _Things take a more professional turn ahead of tomorrow's new moon but an alignment of playful and adventure forces will help to maintain the right balance. There is no competition between the two and finding the right work/life balance shouldn't be a problem. This is more a case of both sides of the pendulum being evenly matched, with a chance to ride the growing professional momentum, without life becoming all work and no play._  
>  _\- NZ Herald 4 May 2019_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, very late - here is my apology.

“Oh Gods! Duncan was right, I can actually feel your happiness from here.”

Ivory silk tassels flying out around her legs Phryne spun towards the voice. “Cassie,” she cried, enveloping the slender woman in a warm embrace. “Duncan didn’t tell me you would be here.”

“That’s because I am supposed to be on a boat in the Med playing hostess, but I’ve been granted time off for good behaviour.”

“Well, how lucky for us!” The presence of Lady Cassandra Rotherington-West amongst the ceaseless chatter of strangers was, frankly, a relief. Left to her own devices, Jack having wandered off an age ago, Phryne had been circulating amongst the guests gathering gossip about the Conrads. Her limit for social niceties had been exceeded long ago.

Cassie draped herself elegantly on the arm of a drawing room chair, understated but undoubtedly expensive, layers of sea green chiffon falling delicately into place. She stared out at the crowd. “I abhor these events, so many dreadful people carrying on about things one can't possibly care about.” 

Having listened to more than her fair share of monologues this evening, Phryne agreed wholeheartedly. 

“Why,” Cassie continued, “I was trapped in the hallway over there,” a pale arm waved vaguely in an uncertain direction, “by a man who spent ten minutes talking to me about some hideous moth-eaten tapestry.” She drank deeply from her glass of champagne. “Tapestry. Darling. Honestly.”

Phryne smiled. Cassie was the personification of indolent wealth and it was all too easy to believe she was as shallow as she appeared. Unless you knew better, which Phryne most definitely did. “Duncan has been miserable without you,” she said.

“I should hope so!” Cassie sat up, chiffon all a flutter. “I absolutely hate being apart from him but one does have to be grown up about these things.”

“And how is Theobold these days?” Phryne delved into the one area of her friends lives she would never understand.

“Busy making money.” Bored perfection resumed, chiffon falling effortlessly into place. “He enjoys it so much, and he is so terribly good at it.”

Phryne shook her head. “I don't know how you do it.” Equally mystifying to her was why her friend did it.

“Oh, Theo really is the best of beans and has always been so jolly good about Duncan and I. Not every man would be as understanding if his bride-to-be told him she loved another man.”

“He didn't have to marry you, Cassie.” 

“No, of course he didn’t,” she admitted. “Only you see I had to marry him.” She leaned across, covering Phryne’s hand with her own. “I know the whole thing offends you but you weren't brought up to it like Duncan and I, and though it’s perfectly ghastly that one can't marry for love, it's just the way of it.” 

She gave Phryne’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Now, let's not go on about it, it’ll just upset you.”

Phryne was all too happy to move on. The thought of two people in love not being together - completely - struck her as sad and rather pointless. She and Jack might have a few relationship issues to iron out, not disappearing on her at social events sprung to mind, but at least they were together, in every sense of the word. On that point… 

“If you haven't seen Duncan yet, how do you even know about Jack?” 

“Telegram of course. Isn’t that what they’re for? The communication of important news?”

“Since when have my romantic escapades been considered important?”

Cassie gave her a searching look before replying carefully, “Don't be angry but Duncan wrote you were serious about the man and given the last time...” The words hung in the air between them.

“That was a life-time ago,” Phryne laughed, “when I was young and stupid.” 

“And now?”

“And now I am older and wiser, and Jack is nothing like Rene.”

“I'm truly glad for you then.” Cassie rested a french manicured index finger against her chin, “Now, I have been trying to guess which one he is.” 

Her eyes roved around the room before resting on a trio of attractive men. “I thought at first the fair-haired beauty with the delicious golden skin,” she said, in an approving tone. “Until I saw his friend’s exotic amber eyes.” She fluttered her eyelashes in appreciation. “But then I heard the third speaking and,” she wrinkled her nose in mock distaste, “I couldn’t understand a single word he said, so he is clearly Australian and therefore your Inspector.”

Much as she was enjoying her friend’s antics Phryne chose to enlighten her, if for no other reason than it made use of the knowledge she had gained this evening. “Mr Thompson is a cattleman from the Veld, Monsieur Flores a French policeman on leave, Mr Rees is from Queensland; and beautiful as they all most certainly are, none of them would hold my attention for more than a night or two.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Cassie agreed, “but one should never underestimate the power of a pretty face.” 

She turned towards the tall handsome man by the table where a lavish buffet was being laid out. “So, that must be your Jack!” She leaned in to whisper. “He has a wonderfully sophisticated air about him.”

“That is our host, Mr John Conrad,” Phryne corrected her. As they watched a young woman approached the man in question, threading her hand through his waiting arm, their heads at almost the same level as they spoke. “And his niece, Miss Grace Conrad, who is performing this evening.”

Cassie threw her hands in the air in mock despair. “I give up there is absolutely no one else here I can imagine you with.”

As if on cue Jack appeared in a doorway.

“He’s over there,” Phryne pointed to where he stood, whiskey glass in hand, surveying the glittering crowd with something that looked very much like distaste. 

Cassie turned eagerly; only for her eyes to widen. “But that's… that's Tapestry Man!” 

Tapestry? Phryne stifled a laugh. What on earth did Jack know about needlework? 

At exactly that moment his eyes found Phryne; a tilt of his head, the slightest uplift of his lip - whatever the tapestry nonsense was, there was no denying that Jack cut a dashing figure in his tuxedo she thought proudly.

“Ah,” said Cassie, “I never said he wasn't good looking.”

As he joined them, Phryne held out her hand. 

He glanced at it, up to her eyes and back. For the briefest of moments her hand hung there, empty, then his fingers joined hers, weaving between them and he let her draw him into her side. 

Phryne pondered the hesitation until the sound of Cassie clearing her throat prompted her to perform the introductions. 

Jack had the good manners to look uncomfortable. “I'm sorry about boring you earlier in the hall, with the wall-hanging. I was thinking of an old friend and how much she would appreciate it, and got a little over enthusiastic,” he explained.

Cassie accepted his apology graciously, and the two engaged in polite small talk, leaving Phryne to puzzle over his words. 

What did he mean old friend? Was he referring to Concetta or Rosie? And why had he deserted her to skulk in a hallway thinking about another woman, anyway? She tightened her hold on his hand and hoped he was all right.

Cassie once again interrupted her train of thought. “Here comes Duncan,” she said, the animation in her voice a stark contrast to her previous languor. 

Whilst Cassie was focussed on Duncan, to Phryne's surprise and delight Jack drew her hand up and for a fraction of a second the softness of his lips rested against her skin. 

“Oh, and he has the Conrads with him,” Cassie added. 

Jack’s posture stiffened and he attempted to withdraw his hand from Phryne's. She refused to let it go. 

“Don’t worry,” her voice was pitched lower than the surrounding noise, “he knows we're together, and working on his case.” 

Surprise passed across his face and then his lips were at her ear. 

“So you knew the thing with Miss Conrad was nonsense?”

“Of course, I would never doubt you.”

“Yet you still questioned me?” 

A shiver ran down her spine. Images of the previous night flashed through her mind; her demands, his resistance, followed by that delightful confession. Desire pulsing through her she made a confession of her own. “Yes, and I’d do it again.”

His reply, was more a breath than words, “And I'd happily let you.”

Cassie cleared her throat as Duncan reached them. 

Phryne tried to concentrate, but the minutes passed like hours as social conversation flowed around her. She vaguely heard Jack refer to the ship leaving in seven days but she was completely distracted by the way he kept stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. She was fighting the need to drag him into a dark corner. And losing.

Whilst the others shared memories of cruising the Med she whispered to him. “We need to find somewhere private.”

He squeezed her hand in agreement just as the supper gong sounded. 

“Grace, you must eat before your performance,” Conrad decreed, in his crisp upper class English accent. “You'll all join us?” he instructed the company who politely accepted.

As they joined the movement towards the tables, Phryne directed a meaningful glance at Jack. They would not be missed in the throng of guests making their way to the refreshments, already Conrad was engaged in conversation with another group.

Jack guided her out of the flow and towards the doorway he had been in, down a portrait lined passage, stopping in front of a wall-hanging depicting animals grazing. 

He swept aside the cloth to reveal an opening in the wall. “Through here.” 

Stepping in she found herself in a narrow passage at the end of which was a flight of steps. Intrigued, she made her way up until she found a door.

“It’s not locked,” he said, so close behind her she could feel his body heat as she swung the door open. 

It revealed a roof garden enclosed by arched columns draped in flowering jasmine. The music of falling water filled the space and the dim glow of gas lights enhanced the shadows. 

“Oh…” her eyes flickered as she breathed in the scented air, “it’s beautiful, Jack.”

He shut the door, securing the latch before moving to stand behind her. “It is isn't it?”

Leaning back she found his hands and wrapped his arms around her. As he tightened his grasp her head sunk back against his shoulder. 

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” she chided him gently.

“Thinking, not hiding,” he corrected her. 

She ought to tell him off for leaving her to continue the investigation on her own, they had a job to do after all, but it was hard to concentrate when she was surrounded by him like this, and he had discovered this incredible place, and she really wanted him to make love to her… so instead she turned her head, inviting a kiss.

It started chaste, their lips resting against each other, eyes closed, breathing in beat. Then his mouth was open; soft, hot and questioning. Her lips parted, her response immediate and eager. His kiss became firmer, more demanding. And her response was fierce. 

Later, she promised herself, they’d discuss why he had wandered off… but for now she wanted to savour this closeness. And God he tasted good. She was never going to get tired of this, the hardness of his body pressed against her as their mutual hunger drove them to continue the kiss long after they were both breathless.

Finally, he pulled away gasping in sweet air. “One day,” he panted into her ear, “you will actually kill me.”

Eyes still closed, she smiled at his foolishness. She liked him like this, no one saw him like this but her. And, whilst she was thinking about it... 

“So, why is Cassie under the impression you're an expert on ancient tapestries?”

“It’s eighteenth century, hardly ancient,” he corrected her.

“How do you even know that?” Did he really appreciate needlework? Perhaps it had been one of Rosie's hobbies, something they had shared.

“There's a little plaque on the wall beside it,” he told her.

It was silly how relieved she was to hear this. “But why even start the conversation?”

“It's a long story,” he said, clearly hoping to avoid explaining.

She waited for him to realise that he wasn't getting out of it.

With a long-suffering sigh he gave in and started the story. “In my search for something decent to drink, like an ice cold Victoria Bitter, I ended up in the corridor below which contained no alcohol of any description. I was heading back when I saw you -I mean- whilst I was heading back to you I saw the bottom of the tapestry moving. When I got closer, I could feel a cool draught.” 

“So you had to investigate?”

“It was overcrowded and stuffy down there, a moment alone in the fresh air appealed.” 

There was an edge of defensiveness in his voice she didn’t understand but she let it pass.

“I had just come back out of the passage,” he continued, “when a woman came round the corner; I still had the cloth in my hand so I pretended to be examining it hoping she would walk by. She didn't, instead she asked my opinion of it. I had to resort to referring to stitch techniques as abbotsfords and wests…”

Phryne grinned at the image of Jack throwing out the names of footy teams as he tried to describe the threadwork to Cassie.

His arms tightened around her again. “Had I known the two of you were friends I would have just admitted I had found a hidden rooftop garden in which I intended to seduce you beside a petal-strewn pool.” 

“Now that would have impressed her,” she assured him, pleased to find she was the old friend he had been thinking of all along. She glanced around the garden. “What pool?”

“This one.” He entwined their hands again, leading her towards the fountain. It overflowed into a narrow channel which they followed into a bower where freshly scattered petals covered the surface of a small pool. 

Jack began to empty an assortment of candles ends from his pockets on to a stone table. She watched with interest as he struck a match, lit one and held it out to her. 

“Try floating it in the pond,” he suggested as he lit another.

After about a dozen they leaned back against the table to admire their work, the effect was simple but spectacular.

Jack held up the matchbox, it looked tiny in his hands. She recognised the Bryant and May box. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “What if Miss Conrad giving these to me had nothing to do with her uncle disapproving of her smoking and everything to do with concealing the identity of her lover? That second time we met, Miss Conrad asked me a lot of questions about Australia, I assumed they were planning a tour.” 

“I met an Australian this evening,” Phryne said, “a Mr Rees.”

He cocked his head. “She was particularly interested in Swan Hill.”

She shook her head, “His family own the Surfers Paradise Hotel on the Gold Coast. He could be planning to move to Victoria and take up wine-making-”

“-but more likely he’s the proverbial red herring, and she just happened across these in a hotel bar and doesn't even know they're from Melbourne,” Jack finished for her, slipping the box back in his pocket. 

They reverted to companionable silence, leaning against each other watching the candles flicker and it occurred to Phryne that now would be a good time to discuss his hesitation to take her hand earlier. If he was worried about something they should talk, sort it out together. That's what couples did - well those that wanted each other to be happy.

But it was Jack who spoke next. “Is Conrad’s wife here?”

She shook her head. “She's in New York, she doesn't travel - she's not in the best of health.”

“That could be convenient for him,” Jack noted wryly.

“Duncan says she is a lot older than him, ten years, maybe more. They married in 1919. Grace was only a baby but her Aunt was already looking after her and the adoption was formalised after the marriage.”

“I wonder what Conrad was doing in America so soon after the war?” he mused.

“Running from bad memories?” suggested Phryne, recalling her own reaction.

Jack slipped his arm around her shoulders pulling her closer but didn't speak. 

She rested her head on his shoulder, listening to him breathe as the flames cast shadows amongst the petals. How foolish she had been, to imagine he had doubts about their relationship when he had been picking flowers and filching candles to create a moment of absolute peace for them in a place teeming with people. In the circumstances there was the only thing that could make the evening complete. 

“Make love to me, Jack.” 

“Here? Now?” He sounded surprised but not shocked.

“Here, now,” she confirmed, wondering if this might be a step too far for him, even after the last few days.

He didn't leave her guessing for long, and this time there was nothing chaste about the way he kissed her. Her hands went to the nape of his neck, running through the short, soft hair. The tabletop pressed into the back of her thighs. Finding herself caught between two solid immovable objects she clutched him closer. 

“More,” she demanded between kisses.

His hands dragged the tassels up the heated skin of her thighs only to discover she was bare beneath her dress. He moaned against her lips, sliding his hands to her waist, lifting her onto the table. Her delicate fingers slid down the front of his trousers, undoing buttons, slipping under layers, wrapping around his rock hard cock. He moaned again, eliciting a matching response from her. His hands moved down, under her thighs, drawing her legs up and around his hips. Desperate to have him she clutched at his shoulders as he pushed inside her. His hands splayed across her lower back to pull her deeper onto his cock.

They kissed. 

Wet, messy, uncoordinated, clashing. Wanting, trying, needing to be closer than was physically possible. Even as he thrust into her. Even as she rocked forward to meet him. 

And still they kissed. 

Then her body tensed, fingers digging in, legs squeezing as she called out, intense pleasure washing over her. And he pressed hard inside her as she ground against him and he found his own release.

Perfect stillness descended.

Over his shoulder she watched the small flames burning brightly, illuminating the dark water; and she was struck by how close she had let herself come to missing this. A shiver ran down her spine.

“Are you cold?” His voice was rasping, not quite himself yet, but already fully aware of her.

“No,” she whispered, “not cold,” nestling her head into the crook of his neck as he held her, breath warm against her cheek, his chest rising and falling - strong and steady as the heart within it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victoria Brewery is a landmark in East Melbourne and was the leader in the technological and scientific development of Australian brewing from the 1880s to the time of the First World War - all of which is fantastic information but what really matters is that in 1854 they created Victoria Bitter which is the best Aussie beer you can get.
> 
> When ordering your Victoria Bitter you should refer to it as a VB because in Australia you never use two words when two letters will do - and it's easier to say when drunk. Please also note that under no circumstances whatsoever should you _ever_ drink Fosters - that is just wrong.


End file.
